Removed
by MelanieKS
Summary: After Scott finds out about Donovan, Theo takes advantage of the valley driven between him and Stiles, and tries to eliminate one last obstacle before his end game.


Stiles comes around, gasping and coughing, when he's slapped on the cheek hard enough to leave a bruise, face stinging. A sound akin to sandpaper scratching across cement comes out of his throat as pain in his skull makes its nasty presence known like merciless surfs. He tries rolling away from the offending wakeup call—

But doesn't get far before his arms catch, halting his motion. The rattle of a chain is ominous and startling. Eyes snap wide open. He gapes at his wrists encased in metal cuffs and attached to a thick, but short chain hooked into a metal ring bolted to the floor. Panic seizes him, but he swallows it down fast. This can't be real, is it? He's dreaming. He has to be. He tugs, hoping the chain will give, that he _is_ dreaming but it doesn't. The _clinkclinkclank_ reverberates in his brain, through his chest and down in his stomach, making him sick.

He scrambles up on his knees, the short link between his hands and the floor keeping his shoulders stooped. A shadow crowds over him and he's forced to crane his neck, eyes adjusting with the darkness and his heart takes a nosedive into his gut.

"Theo."

The name leaves a foul, bitter taste on Stiles' tongue. He bares his teeth and clenches his hands until he feels his short nails digging into soft flesh.

"Whatever you want, you won't get away with it. Scott'll—" He stops short, swallowing down the bitter thought of Scott coming to his rescue. Which he can forget about that ever happening, especially after their last talk – _fight_ – when Scott blatantly said he couldn't trust Stiles anymore; that he wasn't so sure Stiles should stay in the pack after killing Donovan.

Theo smiles. Obviously he's pleased with this turn of events that he ultimately set in motion. Nothing but malice and arrogance spreads his lips wide with eyes gleaming, his boyish charm marred. He squats next to Stiles, face impassive but nonetheless sinister as he roams his gaze over Stiles. Regards him as a piece of prime steak he can't wait to devour. Stiles licks his dry lips, mouth parched and raw. He squirms under Theo's inspection, dreading what the werewolf has in store for him after he already destroyed _everything_ Stiles holds dear.

Malia. Lydia. His dad. _Scott._

The chain rattles when he twitches with anxious energy. Fights _hard_ not to cry. Not here. Not in front of Theo. He thrusts the rising panic back, blocks out the agony of his friends and family regarding him differently now that he's a killer.

He stares at his hands, counts the links in the short chain until he stops where it's welded to a large ring bolted in the floor. Figures he only has about half a foot of leeway. He can't sit without having to bend over to compensate. He knees already ache from the pressure of the unforgiving floor digging into his bones.

He surveys his surroundings. He's in what used to be the main living area of a house, now years in abandonment. A once ornate brick fireplace is in shambles, cracked tiles and shattered brick piled on the floor around it. Empty cans of food are scattered in corners and by the fireplace. It looks like paper and whatever scraps of wood could be found were used at one time to build a fire. The interior walls are gutted and graffiti covers almost every surface. It smells like stale piss and mold. The windows are covered in years of grime and newspaper with one pane broken and letting in the chilly night air.

Anything he could use as a weapon or to escape is _conveniently_ out of reach.

"That's right," Theo draws out a dramatic sigh, his hand petting Stiles' head, and he jerks away with a hiss. "No one cares to help a murderer. Not Scott. Not Lydia. Not your dad. No one's gonna save you, not when they can't trust you. You're a disgrace. You're _alone_."

Those words scorch more than Theo's unwanted touch. Almost gives Theo the satisfaction of hearing him beg for him to stop, but his obstinate streak overrules.

"Fu—" Before the insult can finish, Theo yanks on the chain, throwing Stiles forward with a sharp yelp. He barely catches himself in time before his face connects with the floor. A groan passes clenched teeth as he tries straightening, but Theo keeps him down in the compromising position. Upper body plastered on the floor, hands trapped underneath him, and ass high in the air. He clenches his eyes shut, sucks in air between his teeth when a frustrated howl spills over.

"What do you _want_?" he yells, voice cracking from the panic and dehydration. Tugs his wrists with a vain hope Theo will release the chain, but he doesn't. Stiles flicks his eyes upward and gathers the most venomous glare he can throw at him. If only he could set the damn kid on fire with his looks alone. Watch him writhe and burn, and feel absolutely nothing but relief over Theo's death.

"You may be out of the pack, but that's not enough. I need you gone for good. You're like a cockroach that just keeps coming back because your overzealous sense of loyalty won't let you move on. I'm not done with Scott and I can't have you screwing anything else up. He doesn't need a distraction like you around."

"Leave Scott alone," Stiles gasps, yanking and pulling hard at his bonds, bruising his wrists. He doesn't even care that Theo's threatening his life, but with Scott's safety questioned, Stiles' fury unleashes. He thrashes, bucking like a feral bull. Skin tears beneath the cuffs, blood slick on sweat-soaked flesh. "Leave him alone! Don't you hurt him or I swear I'll kill you. I'll kill you! Don't—"

"It's easier now, isn't it?" Theo retorts and Stiles stills long enough to catch his breath. "Killing. You crave it. The thought isn't enough. You want action. You want to make that thought a reality. Admit it, Stiles."

Stiles whispers through a quivering, rage-filled voice, "No."

Theo's nefarious grin broadens. His eyes crinkle in the corners and he tsks. "That's not what your scent is telling me."

"I'll tell you what my scent says," Stiles says, lifting his chin in defiance. "It says shove some wolf's bane up your ass because I don't _care_."

Theo's hand snaps forward, fingers grasping Stiles jaw and applying pressure in the joints, forcing his mouth open. He growls at Theo, eyes flashing as he tries wrenching his face free. Out of instinct, his hands fly up to fend Theo off, the chain stopping him short. Laughter grates in his ears. Dry cotton presses against his tongue and he gags before a strip of duct tape is smoothed over his mouth. He shakes his head, twisting, but Theo holds his face a little longer. His eyes travel over Stiles' wild eyes, his flaring nostrils, his bobbing Adam's apple. Taunting. Appraising. A faint smile spreads Theo's lips tight, one corner of his mouth cocked.

"You do care. That's your weakness, Stiles. You care too much," Theo declares with a thoughtful and reminiscent tone; his grip squeezing until Stiles' jaw aches then burns. "People take advantage of that. My sister was the same." He reaches for Stiles' hair, grasping and pulling, and it hurts. Involuntary tears sting his eyes, blurring his vision of Theo's face pressing too close. "I was there when she died, you know. I watched the life slowly seep out of her freezing body. She was my first real kill. It felt… _good_."

Dread curdles whatever food he has in his stomach, threatening to choke him. Air escapes his nose in a wheeze. A strangled noise rises and dies in his throat, stopped by the tape. He drags in oxygen, but his throat feels like its collapsing, lungs burning with the strain. He struggles for focus, his heart hammering against the back of his tongue. Vision teeters on the precipice of blacking out before a piercing slap pulls him back from his hysteria. He blinks hard, the room coming back in sharp clarity.

Before he can stop and _think_ he twists around and kicks Theo in the stomach. It elicits a sharp yelp and Theo frees his face, curling in on himself, sputtering. Before he can recover, Stiles stretches as far as the chain allows and slams his foot into Theo's face, snapping his head sideways, blood spurting. He tries scratching at his face to get the tape off, but Theo's on him in seconds and smashes a fist against his ear with enough ferocity for his vision to tilt and sway, nausea bubbling up. He blinks hard and gags behind the wadded cloth pressing on his tongue, crumbling to the floor with his hands trapped underneath him. Ears ringing and sight blurred, he struggles to move, to protect himself.

Theo spits out blood, some splattering on Stiles. He punches Stiles again, his knuckles crashing into his jaw. White streaks his sight when his head smacks the floor, leaving him dazed and feeble and helpless like a newborn. A deep moan catches in his throat, eyelids fluttering open and closed, driving him to focus, to _fight_. When Theo grabs his ankles, pulling him taut and on his back, arms outstretched above him, metal biting into his wrists. He screams and kicks like a wild animal. His feet connect with flesh uselessly, Theo's solid build unresisting.

The whites of his eyes shine. He screams again with rage and terror bursting. Theo's boot strikes his side, something crunching underneath the blow. Defiance oozes out of him in an instant. His ribs on fire and oxygen lost. He lays there gasping, trying to gulp in too much air through his nose, and he chokes.

Rope lashes around his ankles, cinched tight, and he feels circulation slowing, his feet tingling. He's stretched further until there's no give in the chain holding his wrists captive. He legs are trapped, the rope connected to something beyond his reach and sight, preventing movement. Panic dissolves his thinking into scattered disarray. He feels as if he's tumbling in the air with nothing to grasp onto for purchase and stability.

"I like you, Stiles. I do," Theo says, his face appearing in Stiles' line of sight. He leans close, lips brushing Stiles' ear, hot breath raising the hairs on his neck. He shivers and he turns his head away, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Don't take this personal. It's really just business," Theo concludes. His words are deliberate, like broken glass scraping the inside of Stiles' lids.

Eyes snap open wide when Theo's claws puncture his side. Searing pain spreads when nerves are frayed. His back arches, then he recoils with a pitiful whine as Theo sinks in further, grinding against bone and tearing tendon and muscle. His breath catches, lodging in his throat. It hurts. God, it hurts. Theo yanks his claws out, warm blood spreading fast. He shudders, staring at the swaying ceiling through tears. Can't hold them back now, and frankly doesn't care.

Theo's shadow no longer hovers. He says something, but his voice is distant and garbled, and Stiles doesn't strain to listen over the dismay that he's going to die. Slow. Agonizingly slow and alone.

Heavy footfalls recede and Stiles weeps until he passes out.

He comes back around, but keeps drifting in and out with little or no recollection of when he passed out the last time. What feels like minutes turn into hours, maybe even days, he doesn't know. His vision wavers like an unreliable signal, eyelids drooping, and head lolling heavily from side to side. He feels light and then dense as senses morph into a distorted mess.

The only thing he can grasp a solid hold onto is the pain in his chest and stomach, along with the steady flow of blood he's losing, sticky and wet underneath him. He's lost way too much. Knows this by the profuse sweating, rapid pulse, drifting in an out of consciousness, and waves of dizziness. Soon vital organs will give up and his heart will stop.

He's going to die and he can't do a damn thing about it. Saying he's scared would be an understatement.

A sob wrenches out of his throat, but muffled by the gag. Tears mingle with the sweat rolling down his face, his chest rising and falling with shallow, insufficient breaths. He keeps slipping from lucidity and plunges back into blissful sleep. Each time he wakes, awareness blends into a cohesive disorder and he's sinking again. Piteous moans turn into wordless cries for help.

He doesn't want to die. Not here. Not like this.

He wants Scott. He wants his dad. He wants to go home.

Then something warm and callused cups his cheek, grounding him. A hand. He flinches with the fleeting thought that Theo returned to finish the job, but the voice belonging to the hazy figure is too genuinely soft and beautiful to his muddled hearing. When the tape and cloth gag are removed, Stiles spills out a whimper, Scott's name on his lips but the words only come out through another cry.

"It's okay," Scott says, hand stroking Stiles' forehead then wipes his tears. "I've got you, bro. You're okay."

His feet then his arms are released. Though his limbs are prickly and weak, he clings to Scott with white-knuckled fingers bunched in the denim of his jacket. Scott embraces him in a warm fold of strength and words of promise and comfort. Scott leeches his pain while compressing the seeping wound with his other hand. He makes the world right again and Stiles shudders with sobs of joy and shame and relief. Burrows his face in the crook of Scott's arm and lets the tears shake his body.

"I'm…s—sorry. I'm s'rry. Theo—"

"Shhh," Scott whispers, heartbeat firm and steady against Stiles' cheek. "He's dead. He's gone. He can't hurt us any more. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. I'm sorry I let him come between us." His voice breaks and Stiles can hear the tears clogging the back of Scott's throat.

"S'okay."

"You're my brother. Always. I'll never forget that. Never again. No matter what."

Stiles nods, his lips pulling back with a feeble smile. He hears sirens wailing in the distance. He's safe. The pack is safe for now. He's okay. Scott is here and everything will be okay.


End file.
